


Voices Crying in the Night

by LoserxLoser



Category: Toaru Kagaku no Railgun | A Certain Scientific Railgun, Toaru Majutsu no Index | A Certain Magical Index
Genre: And the corresponding episode in Toaru Kagaku no Railgun, Basically everything happens the same but for different reasons, Gen, Introspection, Kind of AU, Set during ep. 10 of Toaru Majutsu no Index, but not really, cameos by Misaka and Touma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoserxLoser/pseuds/LoserxLoser
Summary: Accelerator could dodge Touma’s final punch. He doesn’t.





	Voices Crying in the Night

He sees it coming. A blur of flesh, fast but not quite fast enough, flies towards his face. His reflection won’t protect him, he knows that now. Accelerator is many things ( _murderer_ , his thoughts scream at him. _Murderer, murderer, murderer!_ ), but stupid is not one of them. He’s never encountered anything - or anyone - capable of nullifying his power. Until now, of course.

He could dodge. The boy is fast, but his own injuries have slowed him. His fist isn’t as quick as it had been. It would be a simple thing to dodge the incoming blow and counter attack. He can’t use his hands, but everything in his vicinity - even the ground beneath his feet - can be turned into a weapon. He could still win this fight.

_Murderer,_ his thoughts cry, louder now. Insistent. _Child killer! Monster!_

He can see the girl from the corner of his eye. She’s standing beside her clone (sister, she had called it. It? Her? He doesn’t know anymore). Desperation shines in her eyes, or maybe it’s just tears. Hatred burns in them too. His own thoughts are clearly mirrored by her own. She had said as much earlier. To her, he’s the worst scum on earth. A disgusting, blood soaked excuse for a human being whose only desire is more power.

He can’t help but agree with her.

His eyes wander to the clone leaning against her. Blood flows from her many wounds, soaking her clothes and staining her skin. Still, her eyes are as lifeless as ever. As lifeless as the eyes of all her predecessors had been until he ripped their lives away. As lifeless as the eyes that haunt him night after night, peering into his soul as he tears bodies apart, screams echoing in his ears. He can never tell if they come from his own mouth or from the thousands of corpses that surround him.

He turns his gaze back to the boy. The infuriating, bullheaded boy who had ripped his blindfold off and forced him to realize (to acknowledge - he had always known, but never wanted to accept. Not after the first time. Easier to believe she was just a doll than to face what he had done) the girls he had been killing were just that: girls. Not lab rats, or guinea pigs, or wind up dolls. Girls. Children. Innocents.

Had he ever been innocent? He can’t remember. It doesn’t matter now, probably. He can never claim to be innocent again. Not after what he’s done.

The boy had been enraged, he recalls. Had been furious when Accelerator had called them lab rats. He’d insisted they were human beings who deserve to live as they choose, rather than canon fodder for a madman’s quest for power. It seemed natural for him to call them human beings. Like there was no other possibility. Like only an idiot would assume otherwise.

_I thought maybe you were doing this against your will,_ he had said. Accelerator wonders what the boy would have done if he was. Would he save him? Crush this bloodstained world he inhabits and pull him from the shadows? The thought almost makes him want to laugh. _Save me?_ he thinks. _It’s a little too late for that. 10,032 clones and 16 years too late. Still, it’s a nice thought._

His fist is still headed for Accelerator’s face, closer now than before. Thoughts and strategies and calculations ricochet throughout his mind. He knows he should move out of the way. Knows he can.

_Murderer_ , his mind cries, only this time it’s not his mind. It’s the voices of 10,031 girls screaming for his blood, for vengeance, for justice to finally be served. He thinks he owes them this, at least.

So he doesn’t move. He stares straight ahead at the blow about to come, and he closes his eyes.

Pain erupts in his face. He only has the time to hear the crunch of bone and the warmth of his own blood before everything fades away to silence.

When he comes to, he’s on his back. His face throbs. Warm, wet blood trickles from his nose, his cheek, his lips. Copper fills his mouth. His thoughts are sluggish, slow to start. He wants to stay where he’s at on the ground and never move again.

He never gets what he wants.

He stands. Slowly, painfully, but eventually he’s on his feet again. Sharp stabs of pain assault his brain, and he knows this headache will plague him for a while. His nose is probably broken too. He runs his tongue across his teeth, searching for gaps. He doesn’t find any. He can’t find it in himself to be glad.

A noise catches his attention. He turns. The two girls (girls, he reminds himself. Sisters. Not a girl and her copy) are staring at him - one in shock, the other blank. He doesn’t understand until he notices the boy is flat on his face, only a few feet from him.

_He must have collapsed,_ Accelerator realizes. _That final punch was the last thing he had to give. He’s used up all his strength and then some. He’s still down, and I’m up. Does that mean I win?_

He sees the bruises forming on the boy’s body, the blood soaking into his clothes and his hair and the ground. He feels his own blood dripping from his chin, the persistent throb of his face and ache in his head. They are both broken and battered, and Accelerator is still a murderer. There are no winners. Not in this.

They are still looking at him. The original (Misaka, he remembers. Misaka Mikoto, third ranked esper in Academy City) is understandably wary. Preparing for an attack, probably. Preparing for him to continue the experiment. He can tell she’s willing to fight to her final breath to ensure he doesn’t.

He doesn’t feel like fighting.

He keeps his expression blank, not even a hint of amusement on his face. “I think this experiment is over.”

Surprise colors her face, but she doesn’t shift from her protective stance. He respects her for it. “What are you talking about?” she demands, steel in her voice.

He looks from her to her sister to the boy collapsed on the ground. He wants to close his eyes again, even for just a moment - to hide from what’s around him, from what his own two hands have wrought. He knows better, though. He knows what he’ll see painted on his eyelids, and it’s no better than the destruction already before him.

“I’m finished here,” he says. He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns toward the exit and walks away.

Someone else would apologize. Would fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness. Accelerator knows better. There’s no forgiveness for what he’s done. No absolution or penance that would ever be enough to cover the magnitude of his sins. Better to just walk away. He’ll never show his face to her or her sisters again. It’s not enough, but nothing ever will be.

Misaka doesn’t move as he leaves. Neither of them do. They watch him walk away without moving or speaking or screaming. He can’t tell if that’s good or bad.

He keeps going, concentrating on moving one foot in front of the other until he’s out of their eyesight. It’s not until he’s at his apartment (not home, no matter how many years he’s been there. He knows enough about homes to know they’re where you feel safe, and he hasn’t felt safe anywhere for a very long time) that it all comes crashing down.

He collapses on his bed and stares vaguely up at the ceiling. His life will go back to what it was before. Like nothing ever changed, he thinks bitterly. Of course, that’s impossible. Nothing will ever be the same. His hands are stained with the blood of 10,032 girls. He can’t pretend otherwise. He won’t. No matter how much he might want to, he won’t forget them. Won’t pretend they don’t (didn’t) exist. They deserve better than that.

But he’s so tired. He’s tired of the blood, of the screams, of the bodies piled high in his mind. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

Let the nightmares come. They can’t be worse than reality.


End file.
